The #31sentencecontest is run by @tristancarax. The challenge is to write a story in exactly 31 sentences, with a set word count for each sentence, inspired by the prompt. As tricky as it sounds, it was great fun, and gave me a great peek into my own process, check out round 3 for all the details on how to enter.
SourceCagliari Calling
"Mr Dalton's booked into the executive suite at the Villa Hotel, he's meeting his contact at St Benedetto Market, his penchant for casu marzu makes him careless, that’s your chance."
Fox worked from memory.
It was a necessity of the trade, entire dossiers existing only in his mind. He couldn't forget a single detail even if he wanted to, Fox, unlike his esteemed colleagues, didn't have to work for it. Information burnt into his mind - unforgettable.
Mr Dalton had checked into his usual hotel that morning. Never to return.
Fox didn’t asked who was hiring him, or why, he had an idea though; Mr Dalton had written six books naming members of government as leaders of the New World Order. He'd been laughed off at first but The Beast Behind The Curtains, his latest novel, was different.
It wasn't the usual ramblings of a conspiracy nut, peppered with UFO's and reptilian overlords; it was backed up with verifiable facts, photographs of meetings, receipts, tickets. Real evidence. It hadn't quite been enough to get the over-enthusiastic author taken seriously but he'd clearly rattled someone enough for Fox to get a call.
The client had been specific, Fox was to tail Mr Dalton back from St Benedetto Market.
The eccentric scholar's apparent wandering, expensive bottles of Chianti Classico Gran Selezione clunking in his shopping bag, was in fact a careful beeline to the corner cheese stall.
Mr Dalton slipped the vendor a well-padded white envelope. The cheese wheel, wrapped in brown wax paper, looked like any other as Mr Dalton tucked it under his arm.
Fox followed from a distance, he knew where the mark was staying, this seemed unnecessary. But the client had paid for it.
Mr Dalton was slightly intoxicated, he wobbled down the colourful narrow streets, lamp washing the walls in a warm terracotta glow. It was a slow meander back to the hotel, Fox pacing each step.
The clock started as Mr Dalton went inside.
He had to wait one hour, the instructions had been clear, Mr Dalton would be sound asleep by then, his blood alcohol levels teetering below poisoned. A single injection of vodka - coma, a second and he'd be dead.
Easy.
Fox was an expert at administering silence, he preferred the pop of a quiet pill - straight to the temple, but this made a nice change.
He lent over the man, sleeping heavily, clogged veins bulged in the pale neck as though inviting the sharp kiss of the inevitable. The needle pierced Dalton’s skin unnoticed, a gloved thumb slowly pressing down against the gentle resistance of the plunger.
Liquid death steadily decanted into his bloodstream, Dalton's shallow breathing dwindled as his skin took a blue sheen.
It was done, the dogged man who'd pursued the truth, who'd put something into print he never should, was dead, along with his book promotion and talk show appearances.
Fox made the call, confident his client would rest easy now.
Dalton's phone flashed Call Incoming.
Word count for each sentence 30, 4, 14, 22, 6, 10, 3, 31, 17, 27, 2, 24, 16, 28, 9, 20, 15, 7, 21, 13, 8, 26, 12, 1, 25, 23, 19, 18, 29, 11, 5